Southern Ocean Review, 48, July 2008
“He come from the forest,” Zou said, “When they found him, he was curled on the ground.”
“What do you mean they, Zou?” I said.
“Well, actually it was me found him, eh.”
“Have you looked for his owner?”
“He was wild, I’m his owner now.”
I shook my head. If Zou wasn’t careful some fierce gang member with a pick handle would knock on his door. “He looks a bit thin on it, you feeding him?”
“Oh yeah, a skinny dog’s worthless. He get gravy beef every day and those dog biscuits from the supermarket too.”
“It sounds like he’s eating better than you, Zou.”
Zou’s eyes narrowed even further in one of those inscrutable looks I can never interpret.
“So, has he got a name then, Zou?”
“Yeah, I call him sausage dog.”
I didn’t have to look again to know the animal wasn’t a dachshund. “That’s not a sausage dog, Zou. It’s some sort of mongrel, a bit of collie and a bit of terrier, maybe.”
“Well I’m sorry but he looks like sausage dog to me. The sausages will taste real good too with a bit of sage and onions. I’ll give you some, eh?”
